꧁ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ꧂

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 46

꧁✧✧✧꧂

𝕽omie smiles and waves to Poppy Pomfrey as she enters the Hospital Wing.

The Matron has had a reserved place in Romie's since long before they officially met. Remus' eagerly anticipated weekly letters reporting the affairs of his first year had included plenty of the strict yet wonderfully kind woman who took him under her wing and, much to his delight, enabled his chocolate addiction. Out of the three at home, Romie had been the only one able to read his handwriting. His descriptions did not disappoint.

It was one thing for Dumbledore to offer a secure place at school to someone suffering from a condition that's definition is danger and pain. It's another to care, comfort and heal month in, month out, without fail, on top of tending to other patients in need. Without her, attending Hogwarts, frankly, wouldn't be possible. Madame Pomfrey is the hero in their story and Romie will forever recognise her for it.

Glancing up from the confidential folders scattered across the office desk, Pomfrey returns the smile, greeting warmly,

"Good Afternoon, dear. Same bed as always and I do believe Mr Black is already at his bedside yapping away"

Romie murmurs a small thanks and backs away from the strait office, giggling to herself at the excellent choice of wording. Hitting the mark. A yapper is absolutely what Sirius is. She passes a number of crisp white beds stationed against the walls on both the left and right, some in use, some not. One in specific catches her eye, what appears to be a fourth year pretending to occasionally sip on a Pepper Up Potion. Clearly a case of can't be arsed to go to class so playing the standard sick card.

If she had to stab a guess, McGonagall would be the first pick. In cahoots with Pomfrey, both knowing exactly what they're dealing with here. They'll be out within the hour, as pale as Peeves and traumatised enough to never try to fake again. She smirks at the witches' trickery, deciding to keep that knowledge up her sleeve for the next time she's in bother with the stern Head of House and needs an out.

Romie continues on, coming to a stop outside of the drawn privacy curtains. It's quiet, unusually so, pulling her eyebrows into a frown. Had Madame Pomfrey not just informed of Sirius' presence, disturbing the whole wing with his obnoxiously boisterous tendencies. This was the complete antithesis of that.

Tucking the small box brought underneath her arm, she reaches up, hands grasping the turquoise fabric and pulling at the marginal opening. Her eyes verge on popping out of their sockets at what she sees. The explanation for the unusual quietness.

Sirius isn't at his bedside, occupying the wooden chair for patient visitors. He's on the bed. Practically in Remus' lap. And it's not a stumbling out of the chair, just so happening to land in the most suggestive place possible type of thing. Otherwise there wouldn't be a bandaged forearm disappearing into the loose material of the patterned jumper miles too big for his frame.